Baggage Claim

She's feeling a bit lost and sad.  She knows she doesn't want to be where she was but she's not sure where Next is.  She feels like maybe she doesn't deserve a Next.  She tells me all the reasons why not.

"You're being too hard on yourself," I tell her.  Junior Counselor to the Free World kicks in.

Nobody's perfect and anyone who expects you to be can go suck an egg. There is no such thing as normal, don't try to compare yourself to anyone else.  Just be the best YOU.  I love you.  It will all be okay.  Just breathe.  Really, some days breathing is enough.

I try to tell her that so many times.  No negative self talk.  Nuh uh.  Not around me.  Admitting faults is fine but not to a hyperbolic degree.  You are good enough, smart enough and doggone it people like you.

And yet.

Left to my own devices?

I'm flailing too.  Panicked gasping sobs and eyes wide shut with imagined social terrors.

No man will ever truly love me again.  I will die alone.  I don't deserve to be happy.  There is no hope.

I don't feel like that right this second but just the remembering of that feeling finds me big blinking and swallowing sad.  but I can't tell you that.  because who wants to hear that.

It's preposterous in the first place, right?!  I'm fearless and bold!  I jump out of planes for fun!  well, just the one so far but I'd do that again in a heartbeat.  I write my self to thousands hundreds tens of readers on the internet just because!   And I'm funny!  And pretty!  and stuff.  I'm all those great things people remind me about all the time that I don't hear when it's late at night and I'm alone.

Alone.  Again.  Still.  For the howeverymanyth year in a row.

The loneliness used to not get to me but every so often.  Now it gets to me about every day.

tears over time drip trickle stream gush torrent and the lonely carves a canyon right through me.

But canyons are a wonder, aren't they?  People like to hike around in there.  See the striations.  Marvel at the depth.  Whatever else people do in canyons.  Camp?  I've never been to one, so I don't know for sure.  All I know is that the steady force of even the smallest thing given enough time can create something I can't find the right word for.

And maybe that's part of my problem.  I can't quite find the right word for me.  For where I am.  I feel pretty proud of what I've accomplished since I've been divorced.  Just about everything I've done in the last 7 years would not have happened if I were still married and hiding behind a husband.  But I wonder if I've missed out on love.  I never positioned myself in a place to find it.  That wasn't my focus.  I had my own concerns that didn't involve putting myself on the back burner.  Again.  Not that that's what love is about.  I know that.  now.

And that's where the problem lies.  Logically I know better but emotionally I'm in a weird place.  Now I'm lonely and that's a terrible time to seek out a relationship.  It's like going grocery shopping when you're hungry.  You start putting everything in your cart because all you want is something and it ends up a godawful mess.  I can't do that now.  not NOW.  I've come too far for that fortheloveagod.

So, I'm feeling conflicted is what I'm saying.  I'm pep talking people into feeling great about themselves and convention be damned, love who you are and don't worry about anything or anyone else!  And then I cry myself to sleep because why can't I just fit into the box that so many other people fit into?  Why do I have to be this awkward thing that doesn't lend itself to a container?  Like I'll be found only when I'm tripped over as you're looking for something else.

But I was telling my pen pal the other day that the alternative to this is being one of those boxy, Glitterati people.  You know the ones, most likely out on the display shelves?  And I really don't want to be one of them because those people annoy the hell out of me as a general rule.  I mean, I can make small talk at a buffet table with them just as well as anybody else but the second I see an opening, I'm probably going to seek out someone with some texture who has something real to say.

So anyway...where was this meant to go...?

Oh.  Right.

You, you presently unclaimed piece of baggage, are zippers full to bursting with valuable content.  You will be found.

me too.

just breathe.

Look Out Dating World...

I don't date a lot.  Right?  We've established this?  My X left in June 2004 and since then I've had a couple of boyfriends for maybe a month or two at a time but the last one was summer 2007 and my last actual pick-you-up-for-dinner date?  three years ago.  ugh. 

I used to surf around personals sites occasionally and talked with men through those but for the most part I think online personals sites are utter crap.  If you've found the love of your life through internet dating then CONGRATULATIONS.  I'm sure you're incredibly blissed out.  kudos.  good work on snatching up the last non-serial-rapist type out there.  you kind of suck for that by the way.  but whatever.  My position is firm, no internet dating for me.

I've had plenty of reasons for not putting myself out there more socially in the three dimensional realm also.  Two small children.  Dead mother.  Complicated situation with the outlaws.  Jail.  you know, the usual.

But now, now I've reached a point in life where I feel totally ready for human consumption.  And not just in a booty text kind of way.  Because seriously, if you want to booty text me?  don't.  It won't end well for you is all I'm saying.  Make sure your insurance covers therapy.  I refuse to succumb to the stupid ass booty text.  again.  I am ready for dating.  Actual dating.

And what I want to know now is: WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!

Because most women would take this opportunity to ask, "What's wrong with me?  Why doesn't he like me?!" because women blame themselves for everything.  It's in our DNA.  Men never do that.  Or they do it very rarely.  Men ask, "What's her problem?!" and blame other people when stuff goes wrong.

I'm taking the male stance for a minute because here's why...


Let's say, hypothetically, there was an attractive, single, straight, employed man in my age range.  Hard to imagine, I know, but go with me for a second here.  I don't know this guy all that well but let's imagine we have some friends in common and I might be interested in learning more about him.  In theory, I open the door for a man like this to make a move in the dating arena in the form of witty email banter.  I would feel pretty confident about this if I were to do it because I've been told I banter quite wittily via emails and he was the one who sent the first message...so...I should see if this has potential.  hypothetically.  Right?

Uh huh.  Over the past couple of weeks every attempt I've made has glanced off this guy like Joe Dirt sprayed him down with PAM at the county fair.  Seriously.  At a point where most men would have pulled a Brett Favre, in theory...I can't get this guy past one line, cloddish messages. 

My friend Audrey, ever the optimist, recommended I "re-bait the hook."  Maybe he doesn't know I'm interested?  Maybe...just re-bait the damn hook is what she said.  In ALL CAPS if I remember correctly.  *sigh.  fine.  I did.  I gave him my number.  I told Audrey, "okay.  but just watch.  it won't work."  She said, "you never knoooow..."  We bet a lemontini on whether or not he'd call and by when.  Lemontini is our standard bet about stuff like this.

Audrey owes me so many goddamn lemontinis by now we're going to need an ambulance on standby the next time we go out.

Anyway, I need to talk to this guy for other reasons and the cavalry I enlisted during the reunion stepped in and tried to help me out.  Which is awesome.  I love my cavalry.  My minions.  But I should not need a fucking cavalry to help me get a date, okay?  I am smart, funny, accomplished...sort of...and fairly cute.  Some even say hot.  but not if their wives are within in earshot or have access to their email accounts.  ANYWAY...I should not need minions to help attract a man. 

Because when that much effort is required?  It's too much fucking effort.  I end up looking like the chick at the bar who flips her hair like there might be a spider crawling in it.  Or yanks her blouse down off the shoulder in a way that inspires observers to sport the you-do-realize-people-can-see-you? look.  And then tries to position herself so seductively in her chair that she falls out of it in the process.  All the while the guy is watching the game on TV and has no clue this is going on in his periphery.


And I don't even CARE about this guy.  It's not even fun anymore.  It doesn't feel like flirting.  It feels like clubbing baby seals.  and it's not even working.  I quit.

So like I said, I'm adopting the male stance here.  He's either brain damaged or gay.  not that there's anything wrong with that, but I'm not in the mood to try to flip anyone and brain damaged I simply can't work with.  Or he's after some super-modelly type with fake boobs and a spray tan, and I can't work with that either.

There has GOT to be some single, straight, self-sufficient man in my area code with whom I share an attraction.  There has to be. 

I understand I could be way more strategic about this.  "Leaving the house more" is on my list of things to do.  definitely.  Because everybody knows all the craiglist missed connections happen in Walmart. 

Good Advice from a Bad Boy

In mid July 2008 I had a lot of free time.  I lost my job and the kids were spending the Summer in Carolina with their father so I pretty much had one full entire month to sit around, evaluate my life, figure out what the hell just happened, etc.  I was writing some but I had no clue about the blogosphere as I know it today.  To occupy myself, I bought some books.  Novels, humor, entertaining reading.  nothing major.  But one book stood out for me.  The Manual.  By Steve Santagati.

The cover caught my eye across the bookstore.  Hot guy with I-dare-you eyes glinting over a smartass smirk.  hmmm?  what's this?  I crossed the room.  "A True Bad Boy Explains How Men Think, Date, and Mate - and What Women Can Do to Come Out on Top"  is that so, Mr. Santagati?  we'll see about that.  I flipped through some pages.  It looked funny.  Humorous I mean, not...unusual.  nevermind, you know what meant.  Anyway, it looked amusing, and common sensical and...I bought it.  And I ate the whole thing up immediately.

It was funny.  And common sensical.  And unapologetically straightforward.  It was a male point of view I had been missing for a while.  This guy wasn't trying to get me in bed.  He wasn't trying to avoid me.  He didn't know my X.  And wasn't married to a friend of mine.  Or old enough to be my father.  And he was telling me what guys look for in women, dating, sex, whatever.  All the things I'd forgotten.  or had old information about because I was too long out of touch with all the men I used to have as friends for this kind of stuff.

He wasn't some degreed professional quoting statistics and scientific terms about brain chemistry.  His tone was conversational and full of analogies and self effacing humor to which I related and found endearing.  He wrote like someone I could be friends with.

When I read Chapter 47, the Black Widow chapter, I saw myself.  Not myself at that time though.  At the time I read the book I'd put on 8 months of grief weight, just gotten fired and was in this weird victim headspace.  But in that chapter I saw the self I had been before.  The one who, at the age of16 years, wrote "Flirt to Live, Live to Flirt: A Survival Guide to Flirting for the Beginner" for my best friend because deargod she was awkward and she really didn't know how not to be.  That chapter reignited a spark I felt like I lost after life had kind of pummeled me.

Now, Steve's description of the Black Widow is pretty intimidating.  Unapologetically sexual, heavy on the nonverbal communication, excellent navigator of male territory and dressed with the intent to kill.  His version of this personality type is like my personality on steroids because holy crap that's a tall order to fill all the freakin' time.  It doesn't always come through...but my friends these days don't compare me to lava lamps and Venus Flytraps for nothing.  Black Widow.  I love it when things have names like that.

Reading that chapter, that whole book really, reminded me how attractive confidence is.  How it's okay to be unapologetic about who you are.  To be who you are out loud.  and I started to get my confidence back.  It encouraged me to not settle for whoever crossed my path just because I was bored or lonely or it was a slow TV night.  It made me want to invest more time in myself.  To have something to bring to the table if and when I ever did get involved with dating again.  And if the guys didn't want what I had to offer?  then they weren't worth my time.  really?  I don't have to change for someone else...for serious?  experts agree and stuff?  *exhale!*   (really though, that was a serious exhale moment for me at the time...so weird.  anyway)


Obviously, reading that book was not the golden ticket to some crazy amazing dating life, because if you've been reading this blog for more than a minute then you pretty much know I'm perpetually single.  but it gave me a different outlook on being single. 

The Manual was basically a well-timed smack upside the head is what I'm saying.   If you're a woman stuck in a rut and willing to take a look at yourself through the eyes of a guy who is kind of extreme about how much he loves life and women (and himself...which I don't have a problem with) yet is everyday enough to edit a typo you might point out in his blog [skyward looking whistle] ...then you might find The Manual useful. 

Or not.  Really.  Totally your call.  I mean, feel free to fight each other to the death over some idealized fantasyland dreamscape of what romance should be according to whatever Danielle Steele, Nicholas Sparks or the next Twilight novel has to say if you'd rather.  I'm just offering up an alternative is all.

He's got a website Bad Boys Finish First, and if you want to get me something for Christmas, I'll take the Side Saddle t-shirt.  Purple writing.  Size small.  thx.  But mostly I pay attention to his blog, Ask Steve Santagati. Depending on your circumstance, you may think he's oversimplifying, or oversexualizing things, but for my demographic, he's shooting from the hip.  He's talking honestly from a real life single male perspective and I appreciate that.

And he's nice to me.  So I'm feeling pretty loyal.  And even though his blog post today went in a totally other direction from the question I asked, I still feel certain that he will applaud the surgical precision with which I dispatch of the dude who keeps texting me even though I never gave him my number.

Little League field.  Saturday.  3 o'clock high.  It'll be like a movie scene where the guy gets sliced in half but it's such a clean cut he takes a few seconds to slide apart.  Because I'll smile so pretty he won't know what hit him til after the blade is back in its sheath.

Ruby Slippers

Hour number 50 something of not smoking.  we're still in hours.  I'm still unconsciously reaching for the pack and lighter like an itchy phantom limb.  Even though I don't really want it.  I mean, I'm not trying to convince myself I don't, I just don't.  but it's like muscle memory or something.  weird.  So, I'm reconditioning I guess?

I take a deep breath (way easier already thanks), rub the patch on my skin like a touchstone and remind myself this is not my hobby anymore.  I'd pop in another stick of gum too but my jaw's kinda achy from aggressive gum chewing all day.  I don't even like gum, it's just a place holder so I don't bite my nails to bleeding. 

So there's that.

I came across some journals the other day.  Journals I forgot I even kept from when X and I started dating and on through the split.  They were interesting to say the least.  Okay, more like cringe worthy.  At least at the beginning.  Because from mid 1997 to sometime in 2001 I was a zombie.  I can't believe I even had the presence of mind to write during those years.  But seeing what I wrote?  It was like I was on someone else's autopilot.  It was all this dreamy lovestruck knight in shining armor destiny fulfilling absolute motherfucking vomitous trash.  It's like I was lobotomized, but I was the jackass who handled the knife.

I convinced myself that the man I'd met would turn the world into rainbows and butterflies and the dirty tedium of everyday never even crossed my mind.  Or it did but I was going to somehow tra la la to the wildlife in a gleeful magic way that didn't include figuring out what to make for dinner and dealing with whiny children.  And I certainly didn't expect my knight in shining armor to have any other hobbies besides a regular Tee Time then racing home to shower boisterous devoted affection on me and the kids.  Whatever planet my head was on was a far far distance from the one we all occupy today.  Ward Cleaver didn't even live on that planet.  Not even Bill Cosby.  Maybe Danny Tanner, but I never even watched Full House because that show made my stomach turn so why in the...?

OMGWTF WAS I THINKING?!

*ahem*

But I started to wise up in the middle.  The turn is visible in the journals.  I start to question stuff.  Realized money wasn't everything.  Wrote "Better a crust of bread in a hovel than a castle full of strife" over and over again on pages and pages like The Shining.  fucking creepy?  sure.  Also?  true.  And it was pretty much all downhill from there and resulted in catastrophic events I would just love to tell you about except my moral gray area was more a cry for help than anything else and I'm not all that keen on the ruining of lives beyond my own at this juncture if that's alright with you.  thx.

moving on.

So, you'd think that recovering from a self-lobotomy like that, realizing I'd given all my power away for no reason other than I had no confidence in my own abilities and thought, "Hey, you're the most popular guy in the room.  Have this!" and handing over everything that made me essentially me...you'd think that I would figure out to not do that anymore, right?  Yeah, me too.  Notsomuch in the journals.  I met someone.  I was toast after a few emails. there was poetry involved.  it was plzshootme horrifying in retrospect.

Luckily I had something else going on at the time.  A non-relationshippy thing.  My first big special event fundraising project.  I was really involved and became the unofficial chair.  I fell in love with that event.  Poetry/email dude got jealous.  I kicked him to the curb. And the event made almost double the profit for the children's hospital than the year before.  The idea that I directly helped raise $40K was...I mean...I never did ANYTHING like that in my life before.  I rode that high for a while.

Special events became by niche.  I knew what I was doing, developed a pretty good reputation in that regard.  I was getting out in the world on my own.  Not riding the coattails of a popular husband or boyfriend.  And I didn't need anyone else's money or influence.  It was just me.  I changed back to my maiden name during that time and from Silver as a nickname to my legal first name for good and all.

But I couldn't get the boyfriend thing together.  Or the dating thing.  I'd see these charismatic men and be so ready to just lose myself because that was my pattern.  They had what I wanted.  Power.  And they were already established.  I thought if I copied them or did what they told me then I could have Power too.  It never occurred to me that I was wearing the ruby slippers the whole time.

People told me all along that I was smart and capable and praiseful things like that.  I don't know why I never believed it.  I remember telling X years after the divorce, one of the things that drew me to him was that he was the guy whose car would break down in some nowhere town and by the end of the day he'd be having dinner with the City Council and the mechanic would send him on his way for free.  He looked at me with the slow blink and said, "No.  That's you."

Um.  What?  No, but...that's...waitaminute.  I never thought of myself like that before, but it rang true and I knew he was right.  That's when it really hit me that the people we're attracted to in whatever way are just reflections of ourselves. 

So, now I'm riding the wave of this reunion praise and getting some attention from the male population and trying to figure out if I'm ready to test the waters of dating with the knowledge that I don't need to hitch my wagon to anyone else's star.  That I am good enough, smart enough and doggone it people like me and not try to look for someone else to show me the way.  because I know my path for real for the first time in a long time. 

And I've got friends like Audrey and Betty and you, le blogosphere, to keep me in check if I start spouting off with romantical bullshit too soon.

Oh, but no need to be on immediate alert.  I haven't been asked out yet.  Just a heads up if I start sounding love culty or anything.

Textiquette Lesson

I'm not sure if a manual on Proper Text Message Etiquette exists and I don't even care to Google that right now because I'm pretty sure I have a solid theory on something here.

Gentlemen, lets say you get involved in a "casual but adult" relationship with someone for a short while then suddenly drop that like a hot rock for no conceivable reason.  You proceed to vanish for  2 months only to reappear on the scene with a text message saying, "Silver hates me."  To which there may or may not be some truth.  However, because I am an extremely nice and generous person when it suits my needs, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. 

However, if after that brief rendezvous you fall off the face of the earth for ANOTHER two months before offering a text of "Hi Silver" at 4:14 pm on a holiday weekend (hypothetically)...I strongly recommend you rush yourself to the nearest medical facility you can find because you have either A) suffered a blunt force trauma to the head and need a CT scan immediately or B) have a death wish and need a psych consult.  I recommend starting with electro-shock therapy...but only if I can watch.

Because if you think I am returning that text there is something seriously the matter with you.  Honestly, you should be ashamed of yourself.  you fucking moron.

And Ladies?  How about we all synchronize our watches here and vow to discourage this behavior all together?  Who's with me?!  Because I know some of you must be responding to these random and wholly disrespectful booty texts to keep this kind of thing going.

I myself admit to being guilty of the "benefit of the doubt" acquiescence.  One time.  But thanks to the time honored quote "Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me." and even the George W. fucked up extended dance mix version including "We won't get fooled again."  We won't.

But let's step back a moment.  Take a deep breath.  Count to ten.  Whatever we need to do to get some perspective.  Lets say he IS sincere this time.  Maybe he wants to either be consistent with his attention or even make things public?  Interesting idea.  Good question.  I believe a fucking phone call would be the best course of action if indeed that were the case.

Wouldn't you agree that some kind of verbal explanation or apology would be the correct icebreaker?  Yeah.   That's what I thought.

And I expect some 5-star groveling, alright?  None of this "I had some chick stalking me" like last time.  While I'm sure there's some truth to that, you are very handsome after all, I think you are a gutless douchebag who needs to grow a pair.  I am no stranger to stalkers, okay?  I have learned the best way to handle that is to kneecap them with public humiliation.  Problem solved in short work.  And kinda fun.

But you don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, ladies?  Really?  Mmm-kay - so what you're saying is that THEY are more important in this world than YOU?  And you prefer to let them continually control you using the well-tested FEAR tactic, long recognized as the cornerstone of all abusive relationships?

Sweetie.  Listen.  Quit being a damn doormat already.  Nobody likes a victim.  Except predators.  And they just want to suck the life out of you til you're dead.  Got it?

So, lets start with some Stuart Smalley, shall we? 

"I am good enough.  I am smart enough.  And doggone it, people like me." 

Repeat that throughout the day and every time you encounter a mirror.  Once you're feeling stronger, you can move on to

"Only when you can truly love and value the person you are today will you meet people who can help you with your future development." 

Write that one on the bathroom mirror.  I suggest Sharpie. 

What?  You don't love and value yourself that much right now?  No problem.  That one sometimes needs to marinate.  It kicks in eventually.  Promise.

And after a while, may even be a few years, you get one of those stupid text messages and you laugh your head off.  Because you have got to be fucking kidding me if you think I'm falling for that again.

BOOBS

Cleavage. Fascinates me. I don't know why but cleavage is visually hypnotic. Not the in-your-face, over the top, assaulting kind of cleavage I mean. Although that's hard to miss, it just seems trashy. And not the plumber kind either. ick. I'm talking about tasteful whispers of breast that leave something to the imagination. Even I can't avoid glancing at that.

When I wear the right shirt or get Victoria and her Secrets in on the action, my cleavage attracts plenty of attention. Today especially because this top has a pretty deep V and I am padded more heavily than the little brother in A Christmas Story but it's not like I'd wear this bra on a date. As I have mentioned, I'm not into false advertising but I view enhanced cleavage in everyday situations as more of a strategic move.

I find people are much more helpful, friendly and overall pliable when cleavage enters the picture. I'm sure Pamela Anderson gets people to do shit for her all the time without even trying. And you know, yowza and all, but those puppies are a bit much in my opinion. And fake. And cheating. I mean, she was a centerfold before those montrosities came on the scene, right? I'm not her biographer or anything so I don't know for sure. But why gild the lily, right? No? What? BOOBS!

I'm sure the men don't mind whether boobs are real or fake, as long as they're really THERE. And that is why I only wear the non padded bras on dates. Now. Or I would if I ever went on one. Who's got two thumbs and loves being single?! This gal! (You totally bought that, right?) Anyway. Getting to Second Base while you're wearing a piece of equipment with more padding than anything at your local Gymboree is awkward.

It's like giving a guy a gift in an XBox 360 box except he opens it up and finds a Gameboy instead. And even though it's the thought that counts and the Gameboy works just fine and you should be lucky you got a present in the first place... It's certainly not the damn XBox he was expecting. And that look of disappointment is devastating. Because the priority here was BOOBS!, y'all. And you can see the hamster on the wheel wondering if he should have taken out that other chick who had actual 36Ds on a size 0 frame and loves her some jello shooters and says WOO! all the time and even though she might throw up in the parking lot at the end of the night...BOOBS!

And then he'd think to himself, "Whatever. Love the one you're with." And you'd make out for a while and maybe go too far but he wouldn't call you again because the next stop he's making is WOO! Girl with hair extensions and body glitter. Because even though you're cute and funny, you're a little too much of a smartass for him and he didn't really get half your jokes anyway. And he'd much rather hang out with gigantic tits that don't talk so much.

And the next time you see his pictures on myspace he's burying his face in mountainous cleavage that looks photoshopped but really there was probably a stripper pole and a sugar daddy involved in that marvel of modern surgery. But WOW! Happy New Year 2009! hypothetically.

But sour grapes who wants to spend any significant amount of time with that guy anyway? Because 1. Attends MegaChurch Next Door, 2. Entire Ann Coulter library, 3. WIDESPREAD PANIC! WOO! and 4. Drops the N word several times in casual conversation. hypothetically.

The false advertising was an epic fail on my part. I know this now. I'd rather spend time with someone who appreciates well proportioned, natural breasts that really don't need a bra except they do because...nipples. Mind you, perfect kindergarten pencil eraser nipples at which lactation consultants marvel. (true) They would bring other lactation consultants to marvel also but they're all on break. (thankgod. are you fucking kidding me right now? where's my vicodin?)

But anyway, breasts (classy), boobs (standard), tits (always fun), hooters, knockers, jugs, melons (you're starting to sound stupid), funbags (gross, don't ever say that), mammaries (I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with you and please leave me alone). Whatever you want to call them, there's so many names because tits are fun, wonderful, magical things. And they make Jedi Mind Tricks so much easier. I'm fine with the two I have. I don't want yours and I'm not going for an upgrade.

Anyway, watching men sneak discrete glances at cleavage does not offend me at all. As long as you avoid a creepshow leer, I actually think it's cute. And I totally get it. And I'm flattered. Thanks.

Dating and Other Competitive Behavior

Alright, so I had a date last week. Was it just last week? Feels like a million years ago... Anyway, the date. It didn't go poorly. The onion rings were fantastic. I learned soooo much about this gentleman in that one hour. There will not be a second date. Because of one single word. It was not "separated" (rather than fully divorced). It was not "vasectomy" (although that was mentioned). It was "scripture." He said the word scripture more than once in all seriousness and that was it. My flaw-finding ability is practically Seinfeldian.

I am not an online dating expert by any stretch of the imagination but I have done my fair share of lurking in the years since the divorce. Coming up on 4 weeks of Match I have come to a few conclusions. First stop: Screen name. If your screen name is A1realpapi, or Hotbluded14U I do not need to even look at your photo. You are an idiot. Next: Photo. If your photo hasn't been updated in 5 years I do not need to read your profile. C: Profile. If your profile is misspelled I do not need to meet you in person. I can forgive typos but seriously, spelling counts here people, come on. And finally, if you refer to the Bible more than once on a first date, I do not need a second.

Also, what the hell is up with the rise of the moustache? I mean...seriously, no. I should add that to my "what are you looking for" section: Spelling counts and NO moustaches. And no Bible. But it really doesn't matter because week 4 is it for me. There will not be a week 5. I have not met "the one," I will NOT try eHarmony (those commercials are creepy as fuck), I do not even need to meet someone just for the "networking" opportunities. I have real friends who've known me for longer than 5 emails and an hourlong lunch that have a MUCH better handle on someone who would be "perfect" for me...if that were to ever come up. Which it hasn't in...yes, 5 years...so I am not holding my breath with that. I am not desperate. Not. Right? Nah.

If I were desperate then I would hitch my wagon to the former youth pastor's star totally overlooking the red flag I call "scripture," or the guy who does pirate re-enactments (eyeroll), or the one who emailed me 10 times in a half hour (with no response from me, mind you) campaigning for a date that night: "Sushi? Steak? Whatever you want! Name it! What? Do I have to buy you flowers? Will that help my case? Answer ME!" (AAAACK!), or the guy who is at least ten years out of my age range whose photo is him leaning his paunch on what looks to be a leased mercedes convertible in the middle of fucking nowhere (like I'm letting that fucker take me to a secondary location where no one can hear the screaming...), or the one who talked about his crazyass ex-wife drama over instant message and who has a "diverse" group of friends (that's code for freakshow btw). Oh there were so many. Too many to say no to. It just isn't fair to them. So yeah, not desperate. Open to suggestions but not biting every hook in the water for christ's sake.

What else? The reunion planning is going well. Have to get my ass in gear and plan another meeting. Also have to get ink for the printer, divvy up the list of 553 classmates for committee members to stalk track down for contact info, create a website, email some dude to create a logo for possible event t-shirts and whatnot. It's only January. I have time. It will be here before I know it though. Ten months can fly...wait...now nine? Holy lord. See?!

My consolation is that our rival high school's reunion is being planned simultaneously (planned, not held simultaneously) and I can see on facebook how that's going so far.

[Evil, competitive laughter] Hahahaha...